Morning broke through the mist like a blade through cloth, cutting the night clean in two. A hush clung to the village—not the eerie, suffocating kind that once signaled danger, but something gentler. Expectant.
Chizzy woke with the feeling of weight on her chest—not fear, but purpose.
The fire from the night before still smoldered, reduced to glowing coals beneath the shrine altar. Its warmth seeped into the ground, curling around the roots, the stones, the bones buried deep beneath the village. Something ancient had shifted.
Talia stood at the edge of the old well, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "I dreamed of her again," she said without turning. "Our mother."
Chizzy stepped beside her, wrapping her cloak tighter. "What did she say?"
"She didn't speak. She showed me. Her hands were weaving something in the dark—threads of red, black, and gold. And every time she added a new strand, I felt someone's memory."
Chizzy tilted her head. "Like the fire?"
"No… deeper. Like I was inside their grief. And their hope."
Kiran joined them, breath visible in the cold air. "It wasn't just a dream. The flame opened something. I heard whispers last night that didn't come from the Hollow—they came from within."
"Echoes," Talia murmured. "From the ones who were never allowed to speak."
Elder Noma arrived, her walking stick thudding softly against the earth. "The Eye has seen you. And now, the Weave has begun."
"The Weave?" Chizzy asked.
The elder's eyes sparkled with something between sorrow and reverence. "A binding older than the Hollow. When truth is spoken and accepted, the ancestors begin to weave it into the great cloth—our shared memory. That's what your mother was doing in your dream, Talia. You were watching the beginning of a new legacy."
Kiran frowned. "But why now? Why us?"
"Because the silence grew too heavy," Noma said simply. "The past needed mouths strong enough to speak it, and hearts brave enough to carry the weight."
She handed Chizzy a bundle wrapped in ash-colored silk.
Inside lay a spindle of glowing thread—warm to the touch, pulsing faintly with light.
"What is this?" Chizzy asked.
"The first strand," Noma replied. "From the Weave. You'll know when and where to place it."
Suddenly, a shout rang out from the western path.
A girl sprinted into the village square, breathless. "There's someone at the border! He says he followed the flame!"
The villagers stirred.
Chizzy's pulse quickened. "What does he look like?"
"He wears bone around his neck. Eyes like glass. And he's not alone."
Chizzy exchanged a look with Talia and Kiran. The ripples they'd felt were now waves crashing toward them. The fire's awakening had echoed far beyond the woods.
"We go together," she said.
They moved swiftly through the trees, emerging onto the ridge where the forest met the craggy hills. There, at the edge, stood a tall figure clad in gray cloth and leather. Around his neck hung a charm of polished bone and obsidian.
He raised a hand in peace.
Behind him stood five others—three women, two men. All bore marks on their palms. Different from Chizzy's, but glowing nonetheless.
"You're the one who lit the Eye," the man said, voice low but firm.
Chizzy nodded. "Who are you?"
"We are the Scattered Flame," he replied. "Keepers of the Old Balance. For centuries, we've waited for the Hollow to awaken… and for its stewards to rise."
Chizzy stepped forward. "Then you know what we've done."
"Yes," he said. "But do you know what comes next?"
She stared into his glass-like eyes, the weight of the glowing thread heavy in her hand.
"No," she said honestly. "But I'm ready to find out."